


i was your sleeplessness

by ultraviolence



Series: so many constellations [3]
Category: Catalyst: A Rogue One Novel - James Luceno, Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fade to Black, Friendship/Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Canon, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 17:06:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9501545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultraviolence/pseuds/ultraviolence
Summary: Orson’s trust felt like something solid to lean against. //In which a lot of firsts happened, a fault line between the two appears, and Galen started to realise something. T for kissing/(non-explicit) makeout and fade to black. Set a long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, a long, long time before events in Catalyst and the movie.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry that this took me forever to write, but here it is. Also, I found out recently that Brentaal is the name of a system, not the school (welp), so this is officially AU (plus the age divergence from supposed canon, they're both older here, no underage). The quote _"The sleeper turned his back towards the world"_ is from Le Guin's The Lathe of Heaven, so it's definitely not mine. Enjoy!

“—Erso. Mr. Erso.”

A voice, familiar but not overly so, nagging at the edge of Galen’s consciousness, a thread, possibly a lifeline. _What are voices made of?_ A part of him asked, the ever-inquisitive child-scientist, and he told him, _sound_. _Is there any end to light? What about crystals? How do they work?_  

He was about to answer, when someone shook him awake roughly. He woke up in a world of light and sound, people staring at him as he realised that he’d fallen asleep in class. _And got caught_ , he thought to himself, wryly. Worse, it was one of his specialisation classes, one with few enough student as it is. And all seven of them, eight including their professor, was staring at him now. Galen met their gaze, groggily, fighting every instinctive urge to cower and hide behind his personal datapad. He was never good with attention, much less _this_ sort of attention. 

“I asked you a question,” His professor, a Dr. Organa (distantly related to _the_ Organas of Alderaan, not that he is particularly concerned of her familial background), told him calmly. If she was angry at his behaviour, she didn’t show it. He frowned.

“I’m sorry— _apologies_ , Doctor,” He quickly corrected himself, averting the stares of his peers. “What was the question again?”

The professor opened her mouth to respond, but as if in response to Galen’s plight, the bell that signals the end of the period rings. She closed her mouth, pursed her lips in disapproval, and told the class (not just him, Galen breathed an audible sigh of relief, and everyone else’s collective attention shifted accordingly): “Looks like we ran out of time. I’ll see you all again at the same time next week. I will mail you the required reading materials through the HoloNet. I sincerely hoped that nobody will fall asleep during class next week,” She added, just as Galen was preparing to leave, shooting a warning look in his direction. He ducked his head instinctively, muttering an apology. 

He was about to offer her his apologies personally (he cursed himself for falling asleep, she handpicked him for her class, and that was basically doing not just her but also himself a great disservice) and asked what he’d missed, but she left the class briskly, to Galen’s disappointment and dismay.

He left some time after his classmates (talking and joking and discussing stuff amongst themselves, not really paying attention to him) left, collecting his belongings and a little lost in his own thoughts. The dream, what was it again? He couldn’t remember. He took his stuff and exited the now-empty class, thoughts scattering itself all over the place like the wind. 

He was still a bit lost in his own inner musings—legs working on autopilot—when Orson approached him, falling into step with him silently. Galen spared him a glance and a thought, but was still wrapped up in himself.

“Tough week?” His friend started, travelling light as always, although Galen noticed that there’s a form of sorts tucked behind his datapad. He absent-mindedly wondered what it is. 

“Not really,” He answered, trying to ground himself in the waking— _conscious_ —world. He stifled a yawn. “I accidentally fell asleep.” 

Krennic laughs, a natural and unconscious sound, and Galen found himself snapping awake. “Is that a first? I think congratulations are in order, Erso.”

He scowled, a very much ingrained response at this point. “I’m not—“ _not like you_ , he almost said, but then stopped himself, “ _Haven’t_ been sleeping properly, Orson.”

“Between you and me, I think our neighbour had more sleep than us.”

Galen cringed, remembering their neighbour, a loud and boisterous human boy named Segin (whose last name was unpronounceable to pretty much everyone), probably on par with his own roommate, who’s currently striding beside him. “He brought all these girls all the time. I don’t think he got that much sleep, either.”

“My point exactly,” Krennic responded, a slight grin forming on his face. If he looked closely enough, he could see bags under his friend’s startlingly blue eyes, too. But from the way he carried himself…no one would have thought. A thought formed in Galen’s complicated mind, leaped to his mouth in form of words.

“I think we probably could use more sleep,” He said, then immediately regretted it. It was obviously a bad idea: they both had assignments to turn in by the end of this week, not to mention side researches (for him) and extracurricular activities (for Orson). Neither of them put much stock in sleep, especially not with Krennic’s social life being as it is.

“What exactly do you have in mind, Galen?” The younger boy asked, gears obviously already turning in his mind. If Galen thought in snippets of words and pictures that sometimes formed a larger picture, Krennic thought in data and facts, mechanical gears—metaphorically speaking—whirring, forming information, and possible solutions. If Galen often got bogged down by factual data, Krennic _thrives_ —and he sometimes managed to lend a certain physicality to Galen’s abstractions. _That was why we’re a good team, Erso_ , he told Galen, late at night when they were both having a problem with a group project, _we’re going to accomplish a lot together_.

It was a comforting thought, to have a friend amongst all the mess he called his mind, and the larger mess of reality and graduation approaching ever closer on the horizon like a star of doom, but he quickly turned his mind to more practical matters.

“I’m just saying,” He said, actually not really sure where he’s going with this (sadly an all-too common occurrence with him), “It doesn’t necessarily have to mean anything.”

They were near their destination, the student cafetaria, and their time alone together was drawing to a close. There’s something to be said about Orson and his habit of collecting people—juniors, seniors, and peers of the same year—but perhaps it was just another thing where they differed.

It was also fascinating to watch him shift into another version of him, a version that’s less real, maybe, to watch him laugh and make jokes and be the center of everyone’s attention, to cajole, grin, and occasionally, threatens. _Most_ people think that he’s a handful, at best, and some would probably feel threatened to have such a friend, but Galen doesn’t mind. It’s where they truly complement each other: Orson fielded all the attention away from him. Nobody make rude comments—directly or otherwise—anymore, ask him annoying questions, or just try to interact with him, in general. It was a working arrangement, and Galen could eat his lunch (and sometimes dinner) at peace, while his friend handles all the socialising. 

He wouldn’t have admitted it, but he just loved watching Orson being Orson.

“Teamwork, then,” Krennic suddenly said, breaking Galen’s reverie. They were right in front of the cafeteria, and he clapped Galen’s shoulder, smiling his secret smile. “We’ll talk about this later.” 

And the boy that he felt the closest to was gone, replaced by a version that fascinated him endlessly.

* * *

That night he was alone, reading and researching, occasionally mumbling to himself and jutting things down. His roommate was having one of his usual vanishing acts, no HoloMessage, no scribbled out message, but Krennic was probably attending one of his usual nightly parties. Galen didn’t give it that much thought. In fact, he was more than a little relieved that he wasn’t dragged along. He was trying to make up today’s mistake by reading up on Dr. Organa’s required readings, and he wouldn’t possibly be able to, if he was out at the club.

He was still reading when a familiar pair of hands artlessly wrapped themselves around him. “You don’t have to be so thorough,” The apparent owner of those hands said, sticking his head to see what Galen had been reading. “Force,” He swore, perhaps sounding just the littlest bit drunk, “What are you _reading_?”

“It’s for my specialisation’s class,” He told him, perfect concentration perfectly ruined. “Orson, how did you get in?”

“I brought a _key_ , Erso,” Krennic replied, still too close for comfort (although Galen’s heart was, for some unfathomable reason, beating faster, and he vaguely wondered if he’d forgotten to eat again, or something), squinting at the datapad Galen was holding. “It’s something that people use to unlock their living quarters. Does that ring a bell to you?”

“You lost it, last time,” He pointed out, chiding his friend gently, lowering the pad. “We got into trouble with Student Services. You got into an argument with them.” 

The memory of it slipped into his current of thoughts like a silver fish, and he remembered the taste—the feel—of that day. It had been a grey day, if not in meteorological terms, then in psychological terms. He remembered the excuses, the counterarguments, Orson’s voice ringing loud and clear, fire underlying every syllable. It wasn’t even a _serious_ matter, but one thing led to another, and sometimes he’s not quick enough to douse the fires of his friend’s ire.

“But _you_ saved the day,” The more fiery of them deftly countered, resting his chin on Galen’s shoulder comfortably, as if it belonged there all along. “If only you’d argue like that more often.”

“I did, in class.” His lips unexpectedly quirked up into a smile, despite the topic, and despite his own annoyance at his friend, back then. “Sometimes. You just never saw me in action.”

“That’s something I’d like to see someday,” His friend muttered, surprisingly lucid for someone so apparently drunk. A comfortable silence ensues, in which Galen patted Krennic’s hand absent-mindedly. “Maybe someday,” He’d told him, secretly enjoying this touchy-feely, non-flammable (or at least not _very_ flammable) Orson Krennic. It was another side of him, another _version_ of him, not very well known. In fact, it is virtually unknown to everyone else in the galaxy other than Galen. 

He took comfort in that fact. Orson’s trust felt like something solid to lean against, the feeling of his arms around him and his face on Galen’s shoulder, their bodies close together. In a mutable and ever-shifting world, it was a comfort to have someone to rely on, someone whom you can always trust to have your back.

They stay that way for a while, the taller boy seated in front of his desk, his usual tools of trade—notes, scribblings, datapad, more notes and scribblings—spread out in front of him, while his friend, roommate, and partner-in-crime had his arms around him, chin still resting on Galen’s shoulder. It was a self-contained moment: he had no idea what Krennic was thinking about at the moment, and vice versa, but they were there, sharing it, inhabiting the night together. A question appeared, unbidden, in his mind: Would he remember this night, and nights like these, for the days to come? Would _Orson_ remember? It’s the folly of youth to assume that moments like this would last forever, but for a fleeting instance, Galen Erso wanted just that.

“Quiet night?” He finally asked, shifting slightly, trying to shake off those morose thoughts from his head. His hand found Orson’s messy, light brown hair, and he ran his fingers through it, marvelling lightly at the texture. He knew very well that his friend was of a peculiarly vain sort who took good care of his appearance (something he cannot, for the life of him, fathom), but he always loved how it felt: soft and silky, but rough and jagged around the edges. It says more about the owner than he’d ever realise, Galen noted.

“It wasn’t as fun without you,” His friend responded, grumbling lightly. Just when he thought that the moment is ending, _any second now Orson will pull away and it’ll be over and we’d never talk about it_ , Krennic added, so softly that he might have been talking to himself instead of Galen: “I like it when you do that.”

Time seemed to stop. Galen smiled to himself, fingertips brushing the other’s hair. “Like this?”

His friend gave an affirmative sigh, and silence descended once more. He had a thousand things to say, a thousand more questions, and his brain—his rational mind—urged him to break the silence, to say something, but his heart—his heart wants to stay.

It was frankly confusing for someone as cerebral as Galen, and in the end he settled on something unobtrusive. “I think I need to stop now or you’ll fall asleep,” He told him, shaking him gently, although not making the effort to shrug off Krennic’s arms. Said arms had gone limp, and what Galen just said turns out to be reality—the younger boy had lulled off and started snoring gently on his shoulder.

He broke out into a smile, a private smile that was at the same time amused and affectionate. He still had much to read, and he was usually annoyed at intrusions of any sort, but for reasons currently still unfathomable to his studious mind, this turn of event fascinated him greatly.

“Hey, Orson,” He said, nudging his friend as gently as possible, trying to shake him awake. “This isn’t a very good place to fall asleep in. Come on, I’ll help you to your bed.”

The night’s silence loomed large, as his friend remained asleep, and as Krennic slowly sinks to the floor, like a dead bantha. Galen hoisted him up in an effort to stop him from accidentally dragging them both to the floor (and him off his seat), and with some difficulty, he maneuvered himself, so that he was standing up with his friend draped over one shoulder. Well, it certainly wouldn’t be the first time that he hoisted his drunkard roommate to his bed.

Krennic had done the same for him in return. But things never quite go this way. Do friends feel this way towards each other? Do they play with the other’s hair and fall asleep on each other’s shoulder?

Those were dangerous questions, leading Galen down an equally dangerous line of thought, but there is never such a thing as a wrong question. There are only wrong answers, and in real life, he’d learnt the hard way that they wasn’t as clear cut as it is in the lab, or in class.

He glanced at his sleeping friend. Krennic looked marvellously innocent—to Galen’s great amusement, since “innocent” and “Orson” doesn’t usually work well in the same sentence together, considering all the things he was up to and was _possibly_ up to, something that even their professors had acknowledged—and completely oblivious, his mind in a place that even he can’t reach. _The sleeper turned his back towards the world_. Galen remembered reading it in a psychological text, and he was currently witnessing a living proof.

 _What are you thinking? What are you dreaming?_ He thought, absent-mindedly, to himself, as he dragged his friend’s unconscious body to his own bed. Galen also wondered about the chain of events—what happened before their encounter in his study, what happened wherever it was Orson had been. Was it good? Was it bad? He can’t help but worry, can’t help but wanted the world to be kind to this man, this boy, perhaps the only person that Galen truly felt connected to in the entire galaxy. 

It really wasn’t long until Krennic’s bed loomed large in his periphery, a testimony to how little time he spent there, the map of absence. _He really do need more rest and less gallivanting around_ , Galen thought to himself, not unkindly. Perhaps the same could be said for him, but he was as forgetful as they come, even more in some respects. In fact, he just realised what time is it.

“There you go,” He said, rather loudly, more to himself than to the sleeping boy by his side. He disentangled Orson’s body from him, gently, setting him down on his own bed. His friend was still wearing his shoes, Galen realised, and also the full regalia of what he’d been wearing that night. Usually he’d take off his shoes (a good friend never let his friend fell asleep drunk, still in their shoes) and pull the covers up, and he was just about to do that, when he was pulled in, roughly. Galen let out a small yelp of surprise as he tumbled along to Orson’s bed ungracefully. 

It _was_ definitely a first, and he thought briefly that his friend was doing it on purpose, but Krennic was fast asleep all right. He tried to extricate himself, painfully, trying to pull away from his roommate’s embrace, but Krennic’s grip was like a vise. He knew that his friend was a particularly determined person during waking hours, but he never knew that the same rules still applied even after he fell asleep.

You learnt something new every day, he mused. He’d figured that his friend won’t let him go, and he was tired, besides, and it was late, so Galen tried to make himself comfortable, even if the single student bed creaked under their combined weight, and there isn’t really much room left. He sighed, wrapping his arms around his sleeping, stubborn troublemaker of a roommate, ruffling Orson’s hair gently as he settles in. 

“Teamwork, indeed,” He said, amusement seeping through to his voice. “Good night, Orson. Pleasant dreams.”

As if in response, Krennic nuzzled closer, burying his face on Galen’s chest, his arms warm around him. He might have mumbled something, too, but Galen didn’t quite catch it. 

Orson Krennic might have been a troublemaker and a firestorm, and, to some, a problem student, not to mention a soldier, at heart, and a brilliant architect in the making, but, at that moment, he was just a boy—the boy Galen Erso loved.

Sleep comes not long after, and the night blurred into silence, a field of imaginary stars, Orson’s warmth pressed against him.

* * *

The next day was hurried, the space beside Galen already empty—late sleeper, early riser, couldn’t have been a good combination but, all things considered, Orson _wasn’t_ usually an early riser—and he couldn’t find any trace of the other anywhere, except for a half-drunk coffee on the kitchen table, murky liquid staining the area around the mug (Galen sighed, filing it under _chores to do later_ ), a tiny puddle in the bathroom, and a missing pair of shoes. It was as if there’d been murder, committed in the space beside him on Krennic’s bed, his warmth already evaporating, coffee mug-slash-puddle-slash-missing shoes acting as clues that will lead Galen to his body.

If he were a romantic sentimentalist, he’d clung to the warmth, slowly disappearing, and the faint, familiar scent, poring over every tiny detail that his friend had left behind before he left, thinking whatever it was that he was thinking as he woke up that morning beside the older boy, and then swiftly disappeared into the morning, like an elusive forest creature evading capture.

He briefly let himself wonder what it was that went through Orson’s mind, the gears and pulleys and levers of his mechanical mind (driven by an inner fire that Galen was still trying to comprehend), perhaps how he _feels_. 

Then he went about his day, having two classes and a lecture to attend, not to mention a study group after that.

Galen Erso was not a sentimentalist. But sometimes he wished that he is.

He’d already forgotten about it by late afternoon, although a part of him still wonders, faintly, echoes of a dying flame, and he went about his business, expecting another quiet afternoon with his reading materials.

Along the way, he stumbled upon Orson. Or maybe it was that his friend was _looking_ for him—Krennic was rather good at making himself scarce when he doesn’t want to deal with something, and he was even better at tracking people down, especially when it comes to Galen. Sometimes Galen thought that his friend could probably read his mind, if such a thing was possible.

As it was, he’d rather say that they _resonated_ on the same level, like two crystals who worked well with each other. But it still doesn’t quite shake off the odd feeling he gets sometimes.

“Long day?” He started, no trace of sarcasm in his voice, purely conversational. He’d figured that he probably should start, since Orson, quite oddly, seemed to be at a loss for words.

“Not really,” His friend answered, a closed, caged response. Galen doesn’t read too much into it. He never does. “You?”

It was fascinating to watch Krennic right now, lips parted, head tilted slightly, standing only just outside his arms’ length. His hair is a little windswept, Galen noted, but the rest of him is immaculate, crystalline. 

“Two classes, an extra lecture, a study group. Someone just kept proposing all the stupidest things,” Galen sighed, remembering what he’d just survived, “It was a nightmare.”

Orson cracked a smile, and the strange ice encasing him melted away. Galen felt an odd surge of relief, something that usually comes after the bad dream had passed. He was afraid that Orson would left him, that he’d somehow terrified the other away. Maybe there’s something more than that, but Galen wasn’t sure if he wanted to think about it right now.

“Tell me about it,” The younger boy said, taking a step closer, and stopped. There was something that he wanted to say, something that peers out of his eyes. Galen waited. “Have you started thinking about what you wanted to do after graduation, Erso?”

The prodigy furrowed his brow. They were only a year shy from graduating, and already he got some offers, from various large companies, the government, other institutions. But he never really thought much about it. He knew that he should probably start thinking about it, should get himself a nice job after he graduated and then make a nice life for himself, maybe here at Coruscant, but for the life of him, he couldn’t narrow down his options, nor does he know what he _wanted_ to do. 

That was a problem. But something clicked in his mind.

“Is this about the form, the one you were carrying yesterday?”

Krennic’s smile grew wider, more enigmatic. Galen liked that look on him. “Not really. But nice of you to spot that,”

“What was that for?” Galen asked him, genuinely curious. Orson fixed him a look.

“An internship,” He said, playing his cards close to his chest. “With a large construction company. But you’ve probably already guessed, Galen.” A pause, in which he started pacing, as Galen waited and looked on patiently. “That’s not really what I want to talk about, though.”

He wasn’t good with words, so he gave his friend an expectant silence, offering him only congratulations. It was indeed something to be expected—although _some_ people would probably doubted his friend’s ability and intellect, but Galen was most definitely not in this list—but he had no idea what to expect next. He had a vague sense of it, but his gut feeling was never his strong suit.

“Don’t you…feel compelled to do something? To actually make a difference, in a grand scale?” Krennic said, gesturing broadly. “This program was intended to be a start. I’m making the best of it.”

There was more. Galen leaned back on the nearest wall and waited, watching as his friend paced excitedly, face lit up from within. It was hard not to think of fire, of a star burning brightly, luminous being, when Orson was like this. He could remember the days and nights when he was telling Galen something he was passionate about, the fire that permeates his every pore and atom shining through, and Galen was fascinated, wishing that he, too, could be set on fire, the very same fire that drives his friend, wishing that he was, at least, flammable. 

His mother told him that people were made of different things, because the galaxy was populated by different beings, and they were all destined for different things. She told him, smiling ( _my little star, my little prodigy_ —) that he was water, which flows, like The Force. 

She also told him that he was destined for something great.

Krennic was obviously hanging on his approval, his agreement, and Galen nodded, to move the conversation forward more than anything, because, sadly, as much as he wanted to, he can neither agree nor disagree with his friend.

And he could only wonder what it’d be like to have a nuclear core, the heart of a massive star.

“Galen,” His friend ( _closest and nearest and dearest_ ) said, still shining in Galen’s eyes, still luminous, “I was thinking that we could probably go to government service, after graduation. Together. We could accomplish so much.”

It was a rather sad turn of events, but Galen doesn’t put that much stock into it. He closed his eyes for a second, thinking, mulling over Krennic’s words, not so much weighing the pros and cons as the intricacies surrounding it. He could already envision it, the word _together_ hanging in the air between them, like some magical artefact waiting to be made real—

“Sorry,” The prodigy, the calmer, more cerebral of the two said, with quiet certainty. “It’s not quite what I’ve had in mind, Orson.”

Krennic’s fire _burns_ , his eyes blue fire, and for a moment, Galen wondered if it’d burst out of his body, but it quieted down. This, too, was another version of Orson Krennic, and Galen tried to piece it all together—tried to piece _him_ all together.

“I guess there’s still a chance that you’ll change your mind,” He grinned, whatever he’s feeling doesn’t show—but Galen could feel it, could feel his disappointment in his heart. It was the first. 

He crossed his arms, feeling strangely alone and estranged but not quite, an orphan in a galaxy infinitely bigger than him. There was a fault line between them now. He wondered if they’re still friends after that—after all that, last night too—wondered how Orson _feels_ about him, wondered if this was what it’s like to be in love. 

“We’ll see,” He softly countered, never one to wage wars. There was a silence between them, a silence that he could not quite place, and, perhaps unexpectedly, the younger boy steps closer.

“You better make me dinner tonight, Erso,” He muttered, lips meeting his, hungrily.

Galen smiled against Orson’s lips, meeting it without hesitance. “Unless we’re doing _other things_ ,” He teased, feeling surprisingly confident in this odd game whose rules he had no idea about. He was taking shots in the dark.

“If that’s what you’re suggesting,” Krennic teased back, only briefly, before Galen shuts him up with another kiss, and after that they were too busy kissing each other to say anything further.

Part of him still worries about what might come next, what might come out of _this_ , the fear of certainty and uncertainty at the same time, a paradox, like the boy he’s kissing, but maybe, just maybe, this was _love_.

And even if it’s not, he was loving _this_ version of Orson Krennic _greatly_.

The afternoon blurs, soft light pressing onto both of their bodies, Orson’s warmth pressed against him—and Galen was no longer afraid of the future.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'd figured it's about time to *coughs* relieve the UST. It's almost unbearable to write at this point. As always, thank you for all the comments & kudos, it kept me going! Comments & suggestions are always welcome. Thanks for reading, [hmu on Tumblr](http://officialvoid.co.vu/) for more Galennic/Krennic-related content.


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